


Care Given, Care Taken

by nerdprincess73



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring, Cuddling, Gen, M/M, not really slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 16:19:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1394179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdprincess73/pseuds/nerdprincess73
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John makes Sherlock take better care of himself, and Sherlock decides that John is going to get what he deserves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Care Given, Care Taken

It all started when Sherlock had spent an entire day in his mind palace. John had gotten up and found him on the couch, laying back, obviously thinking. There was an empty cup on the table, still fairly fresh, so he’d only been under for a short while. John got ready for work and went out.

It was late when he came home, only to find Sherlock in exactly the same position. He looked around the flat to find nothing had changed since that morning. The same teacup, now stale, on the table, no sign of any experiments or food all day.

“Sherlock, did you have anything to eat?” he asked, not expecting an answer. He got none. “Anything to drink?” He looked at Sherlock, who looked particularly pale. He went over and did a basic check for dehydration. “Of course not you complete wanker.”

He went and got a glass of water, intending to get it into his flatmate at any cost. He carefully dribbled a little onto Sherlock’s mouth, hoping the stimulus would bring him round enough to drink on his own. If it didn’t, he’d see if he could slap him round. Sherlock certainly deserved it.

He saw the slightest bit of reaction, a tongue at the corner of his mouth where some water was pooling. He dripped a bit more water, and Sherlock opened his mouth, his dry lips pulling apart. He gave him small sips until the glass was empty, and then got up to put on some broth.

Sherlock was coming out of his mind palace as John came back with the warm broth. “John!” he croaked. “Oh, what is wrong with my voice?”

“You’ve been in your mind palace since before I got up this morning,” John said. “Finish this. All of it. Or you’re going to the hospital for an IV.” He handed over the bowl and Sherlock sipped at it. “All of it, Sherlock. You need to take better care of yourself. If you’re going to spend all day locked up in your head, you need to set some sort of internal alarm every couple of hours to make sure you don’t get dehydrated. Not to mention it was bloody steaming all day.”

Sherlock slowly drank all the broth, mostly because John hushed him every time he attempted to speak. When he finished, John took the bowl and brought it back again, half full.

“John, I can’t drink any more,” he protested.

“You’re going to,” John said.

Sherlock pouted, but obeyed.

When he was through, John asked, “What was it you were thinking so hard about?”

“Case,” Sherlock said. “Cold case for Lestrade. I figured it out.”

“Good,” John said. “But never again, Sherlock. I won’t hesitate to drag you to the nearest A&E and have you stuck through with needles if necessary.”

Sherlock nodded and reached for his phone to text Lestrade.

John settled on the sofa where Sherlock had moved from, and was surprised when he wound up with a lapful of consulting detective when the man flopped back down.

“Is this necessary?” he asked.

“You deserve it. My stomach aches now.”

John shook his head. “Fine, but pass me the remote.” So they spent the rest of the evening with Sherlock whinging about his stomach and John ignoring him.

***

The next incident was a cold day when it was raining. For once it was a real downpour, and John had a nice day, relaxing, reading, and having a bit of time to himself. Sherlock was off at Barts or somewhere else, and that meant John had the flat to himself.

A little after four, Sherlock came home, soaked to the skin, half frozen, and pale as a sheet. He was about to flop down on the sofa.

“Don’t even think about it, Sherlock,” John said. “Put on some dry clothes.”

“Dull,” Sherlock replied.

The doctor in John took over, pushing the slender man toward the bedroom. “You’re going to dry off if I have to do it myself,” he said, grabbing towels on their way.

Sherlock protested the whole way, but never stopped moving. And they both knew from experience that if Sherlock didn’t want to go, he had a number of ways to keep it from happening.

John pulled off his jacket, and quickly undid the buttons on his shirt. The tight purple fabric stuck to Sherlock’s thin chest as John pulled it loose and dropped the shirt to the floor. He wrapped Sherlock in a big fluffy towel and rubbed his arms encourage bloodflow. John pulled off his shoes and socks, then went for his trousers.

“John,” Sherlock said. “I can—”

“Sherlock, don’t argue with me,” John said, wrapping a towel around Sherlock’s waist before pulling off his trousers and pants. “You need to dry off and warm up.”

Sherlock stood still while John chafed his arms and his middle and his legs. John pulled him into his arms and rubbed his back vigorously. Sherlock leaned into him. “You’ve got to take better care of yourself, Sherlock. Where’s your coat?”

“I forgot it at Barts,” Sherlock said, “and I had to go follow a lead.”

John shook his head. “You’re mad,” he said. “Absolutely mad. Are you feeling any warmer?”

Sherlock nodded against his shoulder. “Yes.”

John released Sherlock. “All right, get something dry on, I’ll fix the tea,” John said. He nodded and left the room. Sherlock pulled on his pajamas and dug out a jumper from beneath his mattress.

John was sitting on the sofa when Sherlock came out. “Is that my jumper? Where did that come from? I thought I’d lost it.”

“I had borrowed it for an experiment,” Sherlock said, flopping down on the sofa. John rolled his eyes and grabbed a blanket to wrap around him.

Sherlock slumped across his lap and John sighed. “Again, Sherlock?”

“You’re warm," the detective said. "And you deserve it."

So they spent another evening like that, the difference being that Sherlock fell asleep.

***

“He looks different.”

Lestrade had a case for them, and John had already given his input. Sherlock was twirling about the crime scene like it was Christmas and this was what he’d asked Santa for.

“What do you mean?” John asked.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “I mean he looks like a person now. Still a ridiculously attractive person, but less like he’s going to drop if he doesn’t get something to eat. And less frighteningly pale.”

“I may have threatened to get him stuck through with needles at the A&E if he doesn’t take care of himself,” John said.

Lestrade looked surprised. “Really. I would have thought he’d see being fed through an IV a good thing. He’d never have to eat or any other thing he finds tedious,” he said.

John shushed him. “Quiet, if he hears, he might rethink his position on the subject. He’s not a huge fan of needles, but if it’s more convenient, he’s bound to change his mind.”

“Sherlock Holmes, bothered by needles?” Lestrade said.

“Surprising with his former habit, I know, but I imagine that it was the preferred method of getting his high. No danger to his respiratory system. So when he was on cases he could still run about the way he does.”

Sherlock popped up from sniffing at a spill, and John thanked the heavens he hadn’t tried licking it. “Come John. Lots to do.”

John waved a hand over his shoulder as he followed the consulting detective away.

***

John realized that while Sherlock had been doing more to care for himself, he wasn’t entirely reformed, when he found Sherlock settling in for a jaunt about his mind palace just as John was getting ready to get some sleep.

“Four hours, Sherlock,” John warned. “Water.”

“Mmm.”

John went up to bed. He had no trouble falling asleep. But he woke around two when he heard Sherlock yelling.

“John! Jooooohhhnn! John!”

He got up, knowing that he’d get no more sleep until Sherlock had what he wanted.

“What is it?” he growled, hoping to make his displeasure known.

Sherlock frowned up at him. “I need water.”

John shook his head. “Get up and get it yourself. And go to bed, you git. It’s two in the morning. You need to sleep too, you know.” He headed back up the stairs and slid under the covers.

Nothing could have prepared him for the surprise of his flatmate joining him.

“Sherlock, what in the hell are you doing in my bed.”

“You told me to,” Sherlock said indignantly.

“Not in my—” He sighed. “Never mind. Go to sleep, Sherlock.” John shifted closer to the wall and closed his eyes, hoping that Sherlock would just sleep and not try to talk to him the whole night.

He fell asleep just as easily as before, despite the other person in his bed.

***

John woke to a face full of hair, his body effectively pinned by the one wrapped around him. An arm beneath his back, the other along his side and behind his head, a slight, but surprisingly heavy body on his chest, and a leg thrown over his held him well.

His captor snored softly into his chest, and he carefully pieced together the evidence at hand.

At some point between when he fell asleep, and now, Sherlock had moved. And if John ever dared to call it anything, he might be inclined to say that Sherlock was cuddling him.

“Sherlock?” he said.

The sleeping detective rubbed his face against John’s chest.

“Sherlock,” he said again. “Sherlock, wake up.”

Sherlock woke slowly, stretching languidly across the bed before returning to his previous position, against John. “Go to sleep, Sherlock. Wake up, Sherlock. Do you think you could decide what you want?” he griped.

“Is there any particular reason you’re wrapped around me like this?” John asked.

“Mmm…” Sherlock said, “…my side of the bed was boring." He huffed indignantly. "And you deserve it."

**Author's Note:**

> The thing about people who are more bone than anything else is, we all like to cuddle. And you all deserve it.


End file.
